


of his own free will

by Mysecretfanmoments



Category: Dragon Age II
Genre: F/M, Handholding, Mage Hawke - Freeform, Purple Hawke, kind of shippy but mostly friend-ey, takes place some time after act 2 ends
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-13
Updated: 2016-11-13
Packaged: 2018-08-30 19:30:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,381
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8546218
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mysecretfanmoments/pseuds/Mysecretfanmoments
Summary: Hawke's cloud of self-pity threatens to cover half of Kirkwall; Bodahn brings in the cavalry.





	

**Author's Note:**

> I love Varric, and I love Hawke, and I love Varric and Hawke. I hope someone else wanted Varric to comfort Hawke after All That Remains as much as I did, though this takes place a while after.

Hawke lolled in the biggest chair she’d found in the house, her legs hanging over the side. She’d set it at the top of the stairs for just this purpose, channeling Fenris and his moody throne-sitting; she’d wanted to try it out for herself. She surveyed her domain, trying to feel pleased. The wine was meant to make her feel pleased.

“I’m extremely rich,” she told her empty house. It seemed unimpressed with the statement. Orana and Sandal were asleep, and Bodahn had stepped out. She wondered if waking either lodger up to tell them she was rich would constitute bullying. _Probably_.

She gazed around the quiet mansion morosely.

Perhaps Andraste favoured her tonight of all nights. There was a distant clank of metal parts shifting, then the sound of the great front door opening. She grinned.

“Bodahn!” she called. “You’re on time. Still have half the bottle.”

She held it over her head, wondering if he could see from the entry—but the voice that answered wasn’t Bodahn’s.

“Hawke. What are you doing?”

Her grin broadened. Varric was even _better_ than Bodahn. Bodahn was in her employ, or something like it, which meant making him drink was coercion. If Varric was here, it meant he wanted to be, and she could wheedle all she liked. He appeared on the stairs, though he stopped when he spotted her. His duster was gone, rendering him deliciously informal.

“Do you like it?” she asked, indicating her throne. “It was the biggest chair in the house. Then the wine—do I look like Fenris?”

For a moment she thought Varric would scold her, but he folded his arms and gave her question some consideration. “Part your legs and scowl,” he said eventually.

She sat upright and followed his direction, puffing herself up as well as she could, her grip on the bottle’s neck violent. Varric rocked back.

“Whoa, Elf. When did you get here?”

Hawke sat back, grinning. Varric shook his head and finished his trek up the stairs, stopping before her throne.

“Do I bow?” he asked.

“Do what comes naturally.” She hooked her ankles and waited, folding her hands over her stomach with the wine clasped between them. He glanced from her to the bedroom behind her, and she had to remind herself he was only doing the mental math to get her there out of friendly concern—not because he wanted to go there with her.

He sat, managing to look comfortable enough on the rich carpet. This was why people didn’t set throne-chairs in their halls, she supposed; their friends had no place to sit.

“To what do I owe the pleasure?” she asked, wondering if she should offer her chair. Too late now, probably, and he might punt her towards the bed if she stood.

“Bodahn,” Varric said. “Came to fetch me. Said you made him help you carry a chair to—well. Here.”

“I was surveying my domain, as we nobles do.”

“You do, do you?”

“ _You_ have a throne. In the Hanged Man.”

“Gee, Hawke. Didn’t know you gave it that much credit.”

“It’s thanks to all your courtly airs. Wine?”

Varric considered. Wine wasn’t his favourite—but he took the bottle and a swig nonetheless. She watched his throat bob as he swallowed. To her satisfaction, it bobbed three times. _A true friend_.

She took the bottle back, but her need to get drunk had disappeared the moment he’d walked in. Not being alone was better than being drunk. She assumed her former pose, legs dangling over one chair arm, back against the other.

“Hawke,” Varric said.

She picked at the bottle’s label. “Yes, Varric?”

He didn’t elaborate. He was asking her if she was all right, she supposed, but there was no way to answer that. Her mother’s empty room was only a few steps away, and she’d just tried to impress a building by telling it she was rich. She tipped her head back to look at the ceiling.

“I have the estate,” she said. Bodahn was looking to move on with his son; Orana stayed because she was too skittish to exist independently. Ser Fluff was a dog, and much loved, but still a dog. Carver would sooner parade around the Gallows naked than live with her, and her mother was dead, Bethany dead, Father dead.

She had provided a haven for exactly no one, not even herself. Another failure on her now extensive list.

“You do,” Varric agreed, when nothing more was forthcoming. “Seems you might be better off sleeping at the Hanged Man.”

“Are you offering your room?” she joked. “I’ll take it. And the throne.”

“Don’t even joke about that. A man’s dim room at his favourite drinking establishment is his kingdom.”

“Ha! Told you it was a throne.” She grinned, and he smiled lopsidedly back. She loved the way he smiled.

 _Be honest. You love the way he does a lot of things_. Okay then: she loved the way he did a lot of things. Like joke, and make her feel like there was good in the world, and tie their little band of misfits together with his nicknames. He was her best friend.

“Hawke,” Varric said, the way someone else might snap their fingers. Her eyes refocused. “You’re not alone.”

“I have my merry band,” she agreed.

He gazed at her, and he must have thought her very drunk because he didn’t disguise the concern in his face. _Only half a bottle, Varric_ , she thought at him, but pretend-drunkenness was as good as the real thing, especially when she wanted to lounge around on a throne at the top of the stairs feeling sorry for herself. Try explaining doing _that_ sober.

Varric pursed his lips, seeming to consider for a moment, then tried: “You don’t have to be alone.”

She knew he didn’t mean the house now. He meant finding a lover, or a companion of some sort. Isabela would be fun; Fenris would be intense. Merrill sweet, Anders—also intense, she supposed. She’d made the mistake of flirting with Anders once only to receive an earnest vow of protection back, and hadn’t repeated the exercise. Aveline would join Carver in his naked parade around the Gallows before ever so much as flirting back at her. Hawke loved them all, would die for any one of them—but none of them could be expected to put together her broken pieces. It was too much to expect of any one person. Better to spread it out over several companions and hope for the best.

“I hope this doesn’t sound like a brag,” she drawled, “but I don’t think anyone can handle me.”

She’d meant it to come out humorous, but it came out sad. She frowned. “Really, I’m fine.”

Varric stood. “This is getting depressing.” He held out a hand.

She took it, but didn’t use it to stand. “You’re only catching on to that now?” she asked, and he jerked her out of her seat. She let him push her to her bedroom, but once there she planted herself on the side of the bed and refused to get under any covers.

“I’m not drunk,” she said.

“Maybe you should be.”

“Probably.” Her shoulders bowed. Perhaps she looked pathetic; he sat down next to her. “It’s just a bad night. That’s all.”

Did he remember it was almost a year since her mother died? He didn’t comment. She looked at his boots hanging off the bed.

“Undignified,” Varric said, catching the direction of her gaze. “Human beds. Who likes them?”

“Humans, presumably.” She looked at him, and he looked back. It wasn’t a romantic moment, she supposed, but she wanted to lean on him anyway, maybe curl up with her head on his shoulder and have him pet her hair. That didn’t quite match up with the heroic stories he told all around Kirkwall, though, so she refrained.

“So,” he said. “Any more assurances that you’re fine, or will I just make them up myself? ‘I’m fine, Varric, just drinking alone in my giant mansion and harassing my servants—’”

“I wasn’t harassing them!” she insisted. _Not yet, anyway._

He ignored her, continuing with his imitation. “‘I’m fine, Varric, just going quiet and introspective whenever I think no one’s looking’? Do you notice how quickly your smile drops away when the others stop paying attention, or do you think you’re putting up a convincing front?”

She fell back against the bed, stomach churning with—embarrassment? No, she wasn’t embarrassed. Guilt, she thought, that he’d noticed. “You see all that? Are you sure you didn’t get some grit in your eye and confuse me with Anders?”

“Blondie doesn’t bother with much of a front. And yes, I see. Not when you know I’m in the room, mind you, I’ll give you that much.”

“Lurking in doorways, are we?”

“Being short isn’t the same as lurking.”

She stifled a laugh, and he looked down at her with a slight smile.

“I’m concerned about you, Hawke,” he said. “Don’t think I don’t notice how badly this room smells of dog.”

“Maker.” She sat up. “It does? That’s embarrassing. Playing into all those Fereldan stereotypes again. Shall I wax poetic about farming, or will you fill in the blanks yourself?”

He sighed. “I’m keeping the dog smell out of the stories, believe me. Hawke…”

While he struggled for words, she leaned—and leaned—and finally her head landed on his shoulder. To his credit, he didn’t stiffen. He took her hand in both of his, which were warm and dry and reassuring. He did it seemingly without hesitation. _Ah, Varric_ …

“I’m extremely drunk,” she lied. “Can’t sit up straight. Might puke in your lap.”

“Won’t be the first time, won’t be the last.”

They sat like that in silence for a good long while. It went against every part of her to let someone know she needed comfort, but this was Varric, and Varric had known already. She traced his palm with her captured hand, wondering if it would make him uncomfortable—too intimate—but his only response was to squeeze her fingers whenever it got too ticklish.

“So,” she said at last, settling in more comfortably so he wouldn’t take resumed conversation as permission to move. “You won’t tell people about the dog smell?”

“Your secret’s safe with me.”

“That’d be a first.”

“Bard's honour. I only tell your heroic secrets.”

“What about that game of cards everyone in Kirkwall knows about?”

“It humanised you.”

She smiled, and eventually she felt good enough to draw back. He stood.

“Want my help moving that chair out of the hallway?” he asked.

She considered. Varric wasn’t the type to offer himself for hard labour—he must feel truly bad for her—but she wanted to keep the chair there. Perhaps it would amuse her better on a different night, when she could convince Fenris to come scowl on it for a while. He could teach her the perfect scowling posture.

Varric sighed. “By your face I already know your answer is no. Suit yourself.”

She swung her legs, looking down at her knees. How to thank Varric for holding her hand for a while? Probably the best thanks was no thanks at all, leaving the awkward subject alone.

“Do you want a turn?” she asked, thinking of that grand chair. It might be too high for Varric, but she’d love to see his Fenris imitation.

“To cry on your shoulder? Sure. Why not? I’ll come in next time some idiot at the guild reminds me too strongly of Bartrand.”

Her mouth opened. She’d meant did he want a turn on the throne at the top of the stairs—but this was much, much better. She waved a hand at the entry, covering her surprise. “My door is always open.”

Varric rubbed his cheek, and there _was_ some awkwardness in the way he shifted his weight, but she judged it a symptom of new intimacy, not a lasting thing. “Been meaning to talk to you about that,” he said. “Lock it.”

“Ser Fluff would die of boredom. I refuse.”

Varric muttered something too low for her to catch, though she thought it might have something to do with bribes and how certain unsavoury characters hell-bent on revenge were immune to them. She didn’t mention that she _did_ lock the door—when she went out.

“Didn’t hear you,” she told him. “I’ll assume you’re singing my praises, as always.”

His bark of laughter softened her. They regarded each other, and he seemed to come to some sort of conclusion—but all he said was: “Go to sleep, Hawke.”

He was going to leave; she had to postpone it for just a little longer.

“Can this be true?” she asked in mock horror. “Kirkwall’s favourite storyteller wants to quit the field without telling a bedtime story?”

He folded his arms. “I’ll tell you a story. Real topical. Here I go: once upon a time, there was an idiot mage who thought she had to handle everything alone.”

“Not sure I like this one,” she heckled. “I prefer your stories about me. Tell me how I slew a dragon, or outsmarted those slavers.”

He glared. “She was brave, which her friends liked, but—”

“Was she funny?”

“Not as often as she tried to be.”

“Beautiful?”

“Some were partial to her.”

 _And you?_ she thought, but hushed. Varric seemed singularly interested in dwarven women and crossbows; she’d have to take solace in his being partial to her in other ways.

“As I was saying, she was brave. But her coping strategies were shit.”

Hawke waited.

“Her friends worried. Good night, Hawke.”

“That’s a crappy ending.”

“I know. It needs work.”

“Good night.”

He walked out, waving over his shoulder. “Sweet dreams. Shall I send the dog up, or will he make his own way?”

She ignored his teasing, hearing only _sweet dreams_. That would make a change—but she looked down at the hand he’d held so naturally, and didn’t feel quite so close to despair. “You too,” she said, though he was already thumping down the stairs, and she didn’t know if he heard her.

She closed her hand around imagined warmth, and held it with the other.


End file.
